Dear Journal
by ThisNameIsStupid
Summary: One of the mercenaries confides in their diary.
1. Chapter 1

Dear Journal,

It's certainly interesting to reread these pages and seeing my different mentalities. Angry, optimistic, depressed… And then I'm like this. Like Spy, judging from an outside perspective. None of my emotions affect me, but they still lay just out of bounds, teasing me with their presence. I'm calm, cool. It's relieving but it never lasts.

I've been having odd days recently. Staying up later, no desire to eat, ignoring the others to stew in my own thoughts. These have all become part of the shuffle. I'm beginning to understand the causes and reasons for this war, and I hate it.

Suicide. I've thought of it before (so has Heavy, he mentioned) but I can't commit. I think of the few things I'll miss here and it keeps me tethered. The void is surrounding me more often nowadays. It sits there, deep and dark in my chest, but it leaves me alone for just long enough that I start believing that it's gone for good before returning full force. It's here as I write. It's like a pool of water dragging me under with its ruthless currents. My mind is clouded with drowsiness and this cruel feeling as my hand moves across the page.

The morbid fantasies that play out in my head, I enjoy them. I relish the thoughts of dissecting and blood, tissues and veins, blood and organs, all falling apart and at the mercy of my hands. I realize that I've done it before, in real life, but it's so much more satisfying in my brain, where everything goes according to plan and there are no interruptions. The slicing of flesh and experimenting… It seems to my only solace now.

I have no one to confide in. No one would care. They'd turn me in at the pych ward. I can't go back there again.

No one listens to me anyways. My speeches are ruined and words are left unspoken and left to rot. I hate it. I need to speak and no one bothers. Heavy pays attention occasionally, but it's not enough.

I'm sinking and I'm going to drown.

-Josef H. (Medic)


	2. Chapter 2

**A/N - If our Medic wrote in his journal as an adult, it's possible he kept one in his younger years... **

Look, I just need to get the words out. I don't think I can keep going like this.

I hurt. I don't fucking care how cliché that sounds.

All in all, this is all going to sound like bullshit. I. Don't. Care.

I just need to put this down.

So.

I feel like shit. I can't stop myself from thinking of all the things that can go wrong. All the possibilities, all the worst things. I can't stop thinking of suicide, of killing myself off this earth. I can't stop thinking of hurting the people that have hurt me. Don't worry, you'll hear all the details soon enough.

Everything drives me crazy now. What will happen? What if I say the wrong thing? What about them? What if?

I don't even know what they are - panic attacks? Anxiety? I don't know but they happen more and more. The tickle in my stomach and the faster beating of my heart that happens whenever I even get the thought of speaking up.

I want to die. I'm a kid with the thoughts of a mother. I worry too much, I stress too much. I think about hanging myself or tying something around my neck so tight that I cant breathe any longer. There's no real reason. It just keeps happening until I am fully ready, although not prepared. It makes me just sit in silence and despair.

I picture killing people. I think of cutting them apart, slicing them open, watching them die. This isn't normal. And I like it. What I don't like is how I grit my teeth and clench my fists to prevent myself from punching someone. I have to restrain myself. Why. I'm a fucking kid who wants to torture people. This isn't normal. I want to see someone who hurt me bleed out and suffer and cry and scream.

Whenever I think of hurting someone, I want to hurt myself. I want to slice my wrists, to feel the pain I almost inflicted upon someone else. It's only fair. An eye for an eye, even though I never had the chance to rip out someone else's eye. And it's bad how I find this sad, that I didn't have the chance - as if I would have if I was able to - to hurt someone. See, this is why I want to hurt myself. I deserve it.

But no, I don't cut myself. I hold myself back. I starve myself instead. I eat enough that my body is satisfied but not enough that there won't be any gnawing pain in my stomach. No one can see it. No one has noticed. It's… Nice. I like it. I deserve it. It's almost like karma for what I've done, but I am the dealer of it. I control it. I can stop it or start it at any time. With a bit of timing I can completely control my body. If I can't harm others, I might as well experiment and harm myself, right?

People are ruining my life. They cluster the silence and ruin my work, my life. I can't deal with them. I have no knowledge of social activity and how to interact with others. I come off as needy or stupid or too quiet or too loud. There are too many things that can happen to my social standing during these moments. I can fall from the top or be boosted up. I don't understand it and I don't care. I'm better off alone anyways.

I'm better off alone. Ha. That sums up my life, doesn't it? Alone to speak, alone to think, alone to write. Alone to suffer. Alone in general.

That's it for now. It's time for bed and I would rather sleep than continue whatever this is. If this is me now, I'd hate to myself as an adult. If I make it that far, that is.

Goodbye, Journal. Goodnight.

-J.


End file.
